


The Price of Purity

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Barricade Day, Boot Worship, Chastity, Cock Cages, Javert Lives, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 14:23:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11106402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: Javert should not be trusted with a man's most shameful secret. Especially not with the literal key to such a secret.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Barricade/Derailment Day!

It was strangely quiet in the small street behind the barricade across which Javert had just been dragged by Jean Valjean’s hand.

In the distance, the sounds of a city at war could be heard, so remote that here, it had all the effect of a storm passing in the distance.

“You are free,” Jean Valjean said. His attention was no longer entirely on Javert when somewhere in the distance, a rifle was fired.

Perplexed, Javert flexed his wrists—and then his arms shot out, fury bubbling up in him at this irritating man. A heartbeat later, Valjean was pressed against a dirty wall, Javert panting into his face with angry satisfaction, certain that now, _now_ , Jean Valjean would have to act and show his true colors.

And then Javert became aware of a strange sensation. Something hard was pressed to his thigh.

His brows drawing together in puzzlement, he ground his thigh against Valjean’s groin. The presence remained: something as hard as steel between Valjean’s legs.

Valjean groaned. There was a drop of sweat on his lip.

Javert’s mind was reeling. He did not know what to think, and so he followed along with what seemed only natural: a policeman’s instinct to get to the heart of the matter.

His hand struck, swift as a snake. A moment later, Valjean’s trousers were unbuttoned, the flap falling open. Valjean’s eyes had widened, and he had raised a hand against Javert’s chest as if in protest—but he had not used any force.

Javert ignored his hand. He was too distracted by what he had found to even be aware of it.

For between Valjean’s legs, he had not found the hard prick swollen with blood which he had expected. Instead, what he found was a sight far stranger and upsetting—and yet, for some reason, he had to swallow, his mouth watering at the shocking sight.

For some reason, someone had encased Valjean’s genitals in a cage of steel. His prick was soft within the confines of the cage that squeezed around it. Were it to harden—no, there was no space for Valjean to harden. His prick was well and truly trapped, an iron ring surrounding his balls at their base as well. Valjean’s prick was caged as securely as any bagnard wearing the double chain.

“Please,” Valjean said, his hand swiftly dropping to cover himself. When Javert raised his head to stare at him in disbelief, his cheeks were flushed. “If they find you here, you will be killed. Go!”

“What is that?” Javert asked hoarsely, ignoring Valjean’s words.

“Leave!” Valjean urged again.

In answer, Javert dropped his hand to grasp the cage. The steel was warm against his fingers, and a groan escaped Valjean.

“Who put this on you?” Javert did not know where the words had come from, but for a moment, the distant sounds of battle behind them were forgotten. He could think of nothing but the cruelty of the steel and the warmth of Valjean’s caged flesh.

And then, with a breathless gasp, Valjean tore himself away, twisting around before Javert could reach him, to hastily button up his trousers.

“Go,” Valjean said again, his voice trembling, and he did not meet Javert’s eyes.

***

In the carriage, the boy’s corpse still bleeding all over the velvet, Javert asked again.

This time, Valjean could not turn away. Javert watched with quiet satisfaction how Valjean’s hand trembled, as though he was resisting the urge to cover himself again. But it was too late for that. Even though Valjean’s trousers were buttoned, Javert knew what lay beneath. He could still see it: the gleam of metal, the curls of coarse hair, the soft, pale flesh.

“Who?”

Valjean’s answer, when it came after a long, tortuous silence, was not truly a surprise.

“No one,” Valjean said, raising his eyes at last to meet Javert’s. There was something helpless in the gesture, and something noble; Javert thought of an animal baring its neck to the teeth of another.

It kindled a low heat in his belly.

“I see,” Javert said.

It was all very easy. It should not have mattered. It changed nothing about Jean Valjean, who was a criminal and a convict.

A hectic red spread over Valjean’s cheek, and he lowered his gaze.

What could make a man put such a contraption on himself? As Javert studied Jean Valjean, he could not help thinking of it: the crudeness of the metal, the helplessness of Valjean’s flesh, soft and entrapped. Vulnerable.

It did not matter, he told himself again. But now that he knew, he could not help but be aware of what was hidden beneath Valjean’s clothes, all the way to the boy’s grandfather.

***

“Bring me the key,” Javert said. “Then go back in and say your goodbyes.”

Valjean shuddered at the words, his eyes wide and vulnerable as Javert mentioned the key. But at the promise of seeing the girl he had raised, he turned obedient once more, just as Javert had thought he would.

The house was quiet. The Rue de l’Homme-Armé had clearly been chosen because it was too small for carriages to pass through. There was not a lot of traffic in the narrow road; water-carriers would pass through, and tenants coming and going. A man like Valjean could hide himself in such a part of the town.

But no more.

A moment later, Jean Valjean reappeared from the doorway. Gingerly, he stepped towards Javert. His face was tired and calm, but when he dropped the key into Javert’s hand, Javert could feel the trembling of his fingers.

There was something pleasing about the sensation. Just as pleasing was the shiver that ran through Valjean when Javert’s fingers closed around the key. Again Javert thought of the cruel metal that Valjean had to feel even now, an ever-present reminder of the trapped state of his genitals.

What drove a man to such a thing?

Ah, but it did not matter. Valjean would go back to the bagne, or perhaps to the guillotine’s cold blade. It did not matter.

“Now make your good-byes. And hurry,” Javert said.

Again Valjean shivered, his eyes still on Javert’s hand. A moment later, he turned and vanished through the open door once more.

Perhaps Javert should have gone with him, to make certain he would not flee. To grant him leave to talk to his daughter in the first place had been foolish. Still, for all he knew that he was in danger of losing his prey once more, Javert could not move. He could not stop thinking of the key in his hand.

He could not give a reason for why he had demanded it. What did it matter that Jean Valjean had chosen to torment himself in such a way? The state would make an end of all of this soon enough, and then Javert would at last be free of this irritating man.

Javert tightened his fingers around the key until the metal bit into his skin. He thought of Valjean’s prick again. So soft and helpless it had looked, nestled within its cage. Had it been another man to do this to Valjean, Javert could have understood the urge. There had been something pleasing about the sight, something primal that made the blood in him surge. In the end, Jean Valjean was a convict, deserving of irons—to chain the man’s prick and balls was a strange game, but one to which there seemed to be a certain rightness.

A light had appeared and gone in one of the windows. Was that Valjean?

No; certainly the man would have rented an apartment that opened to the garden.

Again Javert stared down at his hand. Blood was pounding at his temple. It had pounded so since the time Valjean, that confounding man, had freed him at the barricade. What a headache this entire business was. Soon the man would be back in the custody of the state, and Javert could wash his hands of him. What a relief that would be!

To his consternation, Javert found that he had taken an involuntary step forward at the thought. He hesitated. The key was still burning in his hand. He wondered what Valjean was thinking. What did he fear Javert would do with the key?

Javert took another step forward. He could not quite say why—only the thought of arresting Jean Valjean seemed thoroughly unpleasant, if only because it would increase the headache that already plagued him so.

Jean Valjean belonged in irons, surely there was no doubt about that—and yet, it was difficult to forget the moment when Valjean had used a knife to cut through Javert’s bonds, and even more difficult to ignore the weight of the key in Javert’s hand, as heavy as lead.

The pounding in his head intensified. Again Javert found himself walking forward.

What would Valjean think to find Javert gone—and the key with him?

Something about the thought seemed terribly amusing to Javert.

Let Valjean be plagued by the same pounding doubt that was haunting Javert. Surely that was the least Valjean deserved. Surely a man who had entrapped his own prick in such a humiliating way deserved no better.

Javert walked until he came to the corner of the road. Then, with the key firmly clenched in his hand, he turned the corner and walked away without looking back.

***

Briefly, Javert had entertained an unprecedented idea: to sit down, to take out a sheaf of paper, to address a letter to his superior, M. Gisquet, the prefect of police, and to suggest a variety of ways in which the treatment of prisoners by the state was in need of improvement.

Instead, when he was just about to enter the small station-house on the Place du Châtelet, his fingers instinctively went to his pocket to procure his papers, and instead encountered the metal of the key.

Javert flinched back as though he had been scalded. Instead of entering, he turned and left. He did not think about where he went, but when his feet stopped, he found himself standing by the parapet, the Seine rushing past below him.

His lips twisted into a smile. Again he reached into his pocket to draw out the key.

He could drop it into the river now. Valjean had no way to stop him. Would that not be a fitting end to all this confusion? He could imagine the way Valjean’s eyes would widen, his lips trembling ever so slightly when Javert revealed the truth of what had happened to the key. Surely that would humble this man who had taken it on himself to be Javert’s judge at the barricade. Surely a man who would do such a thing deserved the shame of having the device bared to the eyes of his jailers when he was at last led to his fate.

For a moment, Javert imagined how the key would sink to the ground of the river, never to be retrieved. The roar of the Seine had increased in volume. Below him, the river was dark, an abyss that seemed to be calling for him with a thousand voices.

If Javert were to throw himself after the key, it would all be over—a resignation handed in not only to that great superior, God, but also to Jean Valjean, who would wear the reminder of Javert’s power over him until the end of his life, keeping that powerful man’s prick humble and useless.

There was a certain satisfaction in that thought. A certain rightness.

But when Javert took out the key, he thought again of how Valjean’s shaft had looked inside that cage, and some fierce, cruel emotion sprung up within him.

He could hand in his resignation, and thus make an end of this doubt. But now that this thing was in his hand, now that Valjean had presented him with this mystery of the cage, a part of him refused to take that final step. To see Valjean humbled would be sweet—but would it not be sweeter to face Valjean with this key once more? To see Valjean shiver at Javert’s power over him, the wolf exposed and cornered by the guard dog at last?

In the end, Javert left parapet and river behind, the key still securely held in his hand as he made his way back to his apartment.

***

It took an entire week until there was a hesitant knock on his door. When Javert opened it, he found himself face to face with Jean Valjean. The man looked tired. There were lines around his eyes.

Even so, when Javert dropped his gaze towards his groin after a moment, Valjean flushed.

He came inside when Javert invited him in. He was nervous; to any other man, he would have appeared completely calm, but Javert saw the way his hands trembled when he looked around Javert’s simple apartment.

Was he looking for the key? Javert felt a new flash of triumph, self-satisfaction heavy and warm in his stomach at the by-now familiar weight of the key in his pocket.

“You bade me wait for you,” Valjean began after a moment. “But you were gone when I looked outside.”

Javert inclined his head. “Yes.”

He said no more, watching instead how Valjean grew more nervous with every passing minute. Under Javert’s merciless gaze, his brow began to gleam with sweat; at last he clasped his hands, as if to hide the trembling of his fingers.

Even now, Javert could only think of what was hidden beneath the fabric of his trousers.

“You still have the key,” Valjean at last said in desperation.

“Yes,” Javert said again.

At his answer, Valjean’s eyes widened. They were dark, and strangely helpless. Was this desperation? For a moment Javert wondered whether he had ever seen him desperate before. Even when Valjean had looked up at him after he had come out of the sewer, he had not looked like this.

Would Valjean now ask him to return it?

“Why?” Valjean asked at last. “What is it—what can it matter to you.”

Now Javert rose and descended on him. Instinctively, Valjean took a step back—but then his back hit the wall. Javert kept coming forward, until at last they stood chest to chest. Then Javert raised his knee a little, deliberately grinding his thigh against Valjean’s constrained prick.

“Show me,” he demanded brusquely.

Another shiver ran through Valjean. He swallowed, but after a moment, as if cowed by Javert’s stare, his hands went to his trousers. It did not take long to unbutton them; still, impatient, Javert pushed his hands away a moment later and pushed the garment down himself.

And there, revealed once more in all its obscene glory, was the steel contraption and Valjean’s defeated prick.

His breath went out of Javert in a rush when he saw that this time, it was not pale and docile. The shaft had flushed—perhaps from the way Javert had ground against it.

It had tried to harden as much as was possible, but there was no space for it to stiffen, with the metal bars keeping it cruelly subdued. Red with blood, the prick pressed against the bars, but it could not expand. The steel ring at its base kept it firmly in place, snugly fitted around Valjean’s testicles, which looked heavy and bruised.

Even now, the sight sent a surge of fierce triumph through Javert.

“Won’t you give it back?” Valjean’s voice was breathless.

Javert did not even bother to answer. Instead, he reached out and cupped his hand around Valjean’s trapped shaft.

“Why?” Javert demanded again, his voice hard. This time, Valjean shuddered.

“To keep from… Sometimes, one might wake and find oneself…” Valjean’s voice trailed off, his cheeks flushing with humiliation when Javert kept staring at him.

In answer, Javert brushed a fingertip against the red, sensitive skin pushing against the steel bars. A groan escaped Valjean. Javert repeated the action; this time Valjean trembled and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Yes,” Javert muttered with some satisfaction, “yes, I see how it is.”

Valjean’s breath was coming fast. The iron squeezing the helpless prick had to be painful; again Javert stroked the patches of swollen skin pinched by the bars.

“Look at you,” Javert said. “It’s not enough, is it? Can’t you control yourself?”

Valjean exhaled a shuddering breath. Despite the cage that kept him small and unable to harden, clear liquid was oozing from the tip of his cock, a long string that dripped to the floor. Javert’s floor.

Javert curled his lip. “I should have suspected that you can’t. But never mind, that’s your concern no longer.”

“Please,” Valjean gasped. “I know what you have to do, and I promised you I would come along without a fight. Just give me the key, Javert. Let me take it off.”

Javert’s lips twisted into a smile. He stroked along the tormented cock again. “No. No. And I won’t take you to the station house. I didn’t wait for you, did I? You can return home again. But I will keep the key.”

Valjean groaned helplessly.

“To keep you honest,” Javert continued undisturbed. His knuckles brushed the swollen testicles; another long string of wetness began to drip from Valjean’s prick.

“There. See? It is quite obvious what has to be done. You cannot be trusted; there’s the evidence right here.”

“Javert, please. If something were to happen… If I have to see the doctor—and then, just to wash myself, I have to—”

“You’ll have to come to me.” Javert felt a deep satisfaction. “That key is mine. As is this.” He trailed his fingers over the hot skin and hard steel.

Again Valjean shivered.

“And I’m sure you will be back,” Javert said with quiet intensity. “Who knows, perhaps I’ll even unlock it for a time. If there is a good reason. I told you once I would not be kind to you, Jean Valjean. And I think you understand now that some things don’t deserve kindness. Don’t you?”

Valjean’s eyes gleamed. There was something hot and ashamed in them, but even now, the small, caged cock kept dripping at Javert’s touch.

“You should clean up before you go,” Javert said when he drew his hand back at last.

The tremor in Valjean’s hands was more pronounced now, his cheeks still flushed with heat when he drew up his trousers and buttoned them once more, hiding the cage from view.

Then, with a soft release of breath that was almost a sigh, he went to his knees.

Javert could not say what he had expected. Perhaps for Valjean to procure a handkerchief, to wipe at his floor in shame.

Instead, what he saw was that strong neck bending, Valjean surrendering with a quiet, desperate grace, as though he were kneeling before the altar, and he pressed his lips to the floor with the same humility with which one might take the host.

With slow swipes of his tongue, he cleaned the floor before Javert’s boots, and when he rose at last, his face still flushed, there was a tormented radiance to his face. His lips were red, his eyes serene as though it had been an act of devotion.

“You’ll be back in a week,” Javert said, something between his own legs throbbing with relentless hunger. He ignored it, thinking instead of the weight of the key in his pocket. “And you will remember. It is no longer yours to touch.”

Still flushed, Valjean inclined his head, and then left. Javert thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out the key. The headache he had felt ever since Valjean had freed him at the barricade had left at last. He felt very calm now, as though some storm had passed.

He did not know what it all meant. But there was a spot of his floor, right in front of his boots, that was still gleaming, and as he stared at it, Javert could not help but anticipate the weeks to come.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Barricade/Derailment Day once more - already my 5th in this fandom! I decided to visit these two again this year... :D

Every step Valjean took towards Javert's apartment was agony.

He had put it off for too long already, but even so, even now, Valjean was trying to find reasons for why it could wait another day or two. He rarely went out these days; no one would ever see him unclothed; was it not true that in Toulon, they had gone even longer than this without baths?

And yet, despite all his deliberating, his feet unerringly carried him straight towards Javert's apartment. 

Valjean knew what was to come. He dreaded it—more, perhaps, than he dreaded being taken to the station-house: the look in Javert's eyes, the derision in his voice, the touch of Javert's hand where no one had ever—

Valjean's thoughts came to a halt when he found himself in front of a familiar door. He had come here once before. Javert had told him then that he would return. And now, here he was, as they had both known he would be, eventually.

Ten minutes passed, his heart beating in his throat, before he could bring himself to raise his hand and knock.

A moment of silence, then steps. When the door opened, Valjean did not dare to meet Javert's eyes, certain of what he would find in them.

But then, there was no need for words. Not for them, not now.

Wordlessly, Javert stepped to the side and allowed him in.

Valjean found himself wandering into Javert's small study, barely taking in the sparse furniture as he thought of what was to come. But perhaps it would not happen that way. Perhaps Javert had simply played a game with him. Surely a man like Javert would have no interest in keeping up this farce for the long run; Javert wanted the quicker satisfaction of seeing him shamed, and once he had achieved that, Valjean would be released. Perhaps, if he were to humble himself and beg, perhaps even the key might be returned to him...

Javert laughed softly as he followed him into the study, then closed the door. "So you came."

Valjean lowered his head. When he did not speak, Javert continued after a moment.

"This took longer than I thought it would. Didn't you remember what I told you?"

Valjean swallowed, his throat so dry that it was impossible to speak. A heartbeat later, Javert was in front of him, his fingers clenching painfully around his chin. Valjean was forced to lift his head—and at last, to meet Javert's eyes.

"Come now, out with it. Don't play games with me. We both know why you're here."

Valjean swallowed again, Javert's fingers digging into his skin. Then he nodded. "Because you have the key."

"And?"

"And because I need to... because I should... bathe," Valjean admitted shamefully. On the way here, he'd allowed himself to imagine that Javert could be persuaded to hand him the key, that Valjean would go home, perform his ablutions, and then return to Javert's apartment to hand over the key once more.

Now, with Javert staring at him, his eyes as pitiless as his grip, Valjean knew he would not receive such mercy.

"Should you," Javert said. His eyes trailed down Valjean's body, and even though Valjean was clothed, the steel contraption completely invisible, shame rose up inside him, because Javert knew.

"Very well then. Undress."

The cruel fingers released his chin at last. Valjean drew in a deep breath, then began unbuttoning his trousers with trembling fingers. He did not dare to make Javert wait, even though his stomach was twisting with dread when he at last stepped out of his trousers.

"Go on," Javert said curtly. "The rest as well."

His heartbeat thundering in his ears, Valjean mechanically removed his coat and shirt as well, his shoulders hunching when he at last stood before Javert stripped of his dignity, the thing between his legs on display. In the years he had worn it, the cold cruelty of the steel had become familiar, its weight as reassuring as the embrace of a friend, until he had thought as little of it as he thought of the shirt or shoes he was wearing. The thing was a part of him, and sometimes, when he woke from fevered dreams, his body trembling beneath his blanket, it held him in its grip with the same severity with which Javert's fingers had earlier clenched around his chin. Those days did not happen often—but even so, whenever they did, Valjean found himself grateful for the pain, as much as he felt shame at the necessity of it.

"Wait here."

Javert left the room. A few minutes passed. Valjean did not dare to think of what Javert might do.

To be arrested now, like this—if Javert were to call for backup and lead his men into this room...

Valjean shuddered, sweat running down his back. Even so, he remained obediently in place.

When Javert returned at last, he carried a bowl of water and a cloth in his hand. He put them down on his desk, then reached beneath his coat and pulled out the key.

Valjean tried to stay still as Javert grabbed hold of his caged genitals, but the brush of Javert's thumb against his swollen balls drew a gasp from him, which Javert chose to ignore. Then the small key slid into the lock and turned. A moment later, for the first time in days, the cage was smoothed off him. Valjean groaned again, trembling, when Javert pushed his aching balls through the circle of steel.

And then, at last, he was free, the sensation of his prick hanging limp beneath his legs without the reassuring embrace of the cage suddenly so acutely embarrassing that he felt tears well up in his eyes.

“You’ve had someone create this for you,” Javert said thoughtfully.

Valjean did not answer; they both knew that Javert’s assumption was right.

Javert laughed. Then he reached out and took hold of the cloth and a small ball of soap. Valjean wanted to close his eyes, but it was impossible to look away; Javert held his gaze with the cruel amusement of the cat staring at a mouse trapped between its paws.

Then Javert touched him. Mortified, Valjean allowed himself to be washed. The soap was coarse and Javert’s hands were not gentle. Even so, Valjean felt a small amount of gratitude for the harsh scrubbing, the pain distracting him momentarily from his shame.

And yet, only moments passed before he felt a different shame wash through him.

Javert laughed again. “You haven’t learned, I see,” he said. His soapy fingers tightened around Valjean’s prick to the point of pain, but even so Valjean’s abused flesh continued to stiffen.

“Well?”

Valjean’s chest rose and fell. He desperately wished he had not come—and yet, even so, there seemed to be a terrible justice in having his body’s betrayal witnessed at last, even by Javert. And had not Javert always judged him harshly? This judgment, at last, he deserved, the severity something he yearned for, as much as the slow walk to Javert’s apartment had terrified him.

“It will subside,” he said desperately. “Just put it back on.”

The corners of Javert’s lips turned up. “You haven’t tried to touch yourself, have you? Or tried to remove it?”

Mutely, Valjean shook his head.

“Good,” Javert said with satisfaction. “At least you can still follow orders.”

Javert dipped the cloth into the water. A moment later, he began to clean the soap off Valjean’s skin. The water was cold; even so, it was not enough to bring himself back under control. 

“I’m surprised you came,” Javert muttered after long moments had passed.

“You have the key,” Valjean said in despair.

Javert’s finger stroked up the rigid length of his disobedient flesh, and Valjean shuddered in shameful ecstasy.

“Is it really just that?”

Javert did not cease touching him. Sweat ran down Valjean’s brow as he desperately fought to keep himself from arching into the touch.

There was a terrible pleasure in it. As coarse as Javert’s hands were, as terrifying as it was to find himself touched so for the first time in his life, the part of his body that he had thought securely locked away pressed firm and hard against Javert’s fingers, as if to entice him to further touch.

Mortified, Valjean moaned when the rough pad of Javert’s thumb ran around the sensitive head.

“There, look.” There was derision in Javert’s voice as he raised his hand. On his thumb, fluid glistened; Valjean blushed with humiliation at the sight. “You still can’t control yourself.”

Javert wiped his thumb over his face, smearing his shame over Valjean’s lips. Trembling, Valjean lowered his eyes.

“I think that’s why you came.” Javert’s voice was low and intimate. “Because you know it isn’t enough. Because you need a harsher judge than yourself. Someone who won’t be swayed by pleas for mercy. Someone who sees you for what you are. Someone who’s not kind, but just. Isn’t that right?”

Valjean struggled to breathe, barely able to think as his body throbbed with a terrible heat.

“Well?” Javert demanded. “You’ll answer when I ask you a question.”

Valjean swallowed. “Yes,” he admitted. The word was barely audible, and yet he knew it was true. Javert was right. There was a terrible justice in this.

Javert fisted a handful of his hair again, then gave it a tug. “You’ll kneel until you’ve learned your lesson.”

Javert’s grip was harsh, but Valjean followed all too willingly, falling to his knees on Javert’s cold floor. That, at last, was familiar. Thus, he had fought numerous similar battles against himself.

But then, he had been alone at those times. Javert’s eyes had not lingered on him, aware of his shame, and he had not been naked.

Javert had not moved. Valjean could see his boots, the old, worn leather carefully polished to a shine. After a moment, Valjean bent his head, the beginning ache in his knees welcome, even though his body remained roused beneath Javert’s merciless gaze.

“You’ll stay there for as long as it takes,” Javert said. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Valjean said, his traitorous body pulsing hotly.

Javert moved closer, until Valjean could see a polished boot between his spread knees. He swallowed convulsively.

Javert took another step forward, his boot threateningly nudging his aching balls, and Valjean groaned as his prick pulsed again.

“And if I see you move—if I hear even one word from you—you’ll leave immediately, without the cage.”

Valjean squeezed his eyes shut, another groan escaping him when Javert gripped a fistful of his hair once more.

“Because I think you want that even less,” Javert murmured. “Because you know you cannot control yourself.” His boot nudged Valjean’s balls again, and Valjean drew in a sharp breath, fighting to keep control of himself even as his prick jerked.

“Isn’t that right?”

Javert released his hair and took a step back, and without thinking Valjean bent forward, pressing his lips to the tip of Javert’s boot, the leather smooth and cold against his lips.

“Yes,” he said softly. Above him, Javert chuckled, the sound low and satisfied.


End file.
